


Echoes of Forgotten Hope

by Magi_Silverwolf



Series: Legacies [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Canon Typical Racism, Canon Typical Xenophobia, F/M, Gen, Grief, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Paganism, Soul Bond, Teen Pregnancy, Wedding, blended families - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-09-24 17:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9774323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magi_Silverwolf/pseuds/Magi_Silverwolf
Summary: Nikola should have been there. It was their daughter's wedding. It was wrong that he wasn't there. But that wasn't his fault, was it? It was hers.





	1. Melltith

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.  
> Warnings: This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers.  
> Author’s Note(s): This story is a response to the Soul Bound Challenge posted in the Facebook group Fanfiction Challenge. The Soul Bound Challenge is the monthly challenge for February.  
> Special Thanks to the Joyful Joy, who beta-read this piece despite having surgery the day before and then proceeded to listen to me wax poetically about food she couldn't eat because of said surgery.

Echoes of Forgotten Hope

Part 01: Melltith

-= LP =-

Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes

My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die,

And will be born again,—but ah, to see

Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!

Oh, Autumn! Autumn!—What is the Spring to me?

– Edna St. Vincent Millay, _The Death of Autumn_

-= LP =-

 

_Cokeworth, Shropshire, England, February 1960_

 

Melanthe watched as her latest daughter danced with her husband. The fading sunlight caught in Marigold’s hair giving it a truer hue than the red normally appeared. The girl laughed as her groom spun her about the dance floor and Melanthe smiled, even as her heart wanted nothing more than to weep. Nikola, her Nikola, should have been here to see this. Not for the first time, she regretted sending him away all those years ago. Perhaps if she had kept him close—if she had just risked that the cabal would be able to follow as they had from where she had hid them after New York—then maybe she could have prevented his death. In seeking to protect him, she had inadvertently ensured that he missed out on the pleasure which was raising Marigold.

 

Marigold had been a surprise, to say the least. If there was one thing which her long years had taught her, it was that children were the price paid for the longevity she and her kind enjoyed. Lamiae rarely had children, cursed as they were, and even as closely related as lamiae are to vampires and succubae, the chances of conception was only marginally better than lamiae and humans. Typically, extraordinary measures had to be taken, and even then, the Church had managed to sterilize the vampires which prevented them from natural means of reproduction. The only remaining methods they had was direct blood and flesh transfers which were tricky at best and more likely to produce a mindless beast than anything resembling a true vampire. Marigold should have been impossible, conceived accidentally in an affair which had lasted less than a fortnight.

 

Then again, Nikola had mentioned that he did the impossible.

 

Raising Marigold had not been as easy as raising her other children had been. The times were different. Unwed mothers were not currently acceptable, though thankfully not illegal as they had been at various times. Fortunately, the war with Germany had made many a widow and as her sources had confirmed the public reports of Nikola’s death, grief had not been hard to demonstrate. Even now, over a decade and a half since she had “saved” him only to lose him, his loss pressed against her chest like a boulder, crushing her beneath its weight. There had been times when Marigold had said something or done something which was just so _Nikola_ that Melanthe had to fight to recall how to breathe.

 

While drawing in some man to stand as a shield against societal disapproval would have been easy, Melanthe hadn’t the heart to replace Nikola. She still didn’t, even as her instincts called out for fulfillment. Nikola had been special to her in a way she had thought she had lost. From the moment she had seen him in that New York bar, she had felt the connection they had with each other. She had planned to use him and send him along as she had so many others over her long life. Then they had been attacked and she realized that for all that he was perfectly happy to be played with, Nikola was not a mere toy to her. So when he pushed against her, she pushed back, bonding him to her in way that only lamiae and vampires can, not caring that she had known him less than a week. For five wonderful days, she had rejoiced in their mateship. It was her first since her Kerbasi had died almost a millennia past.

 

It still pounded at her occasionally, the feel of their bond. It lingered like an aftertaste on her tongue, an echo of things better off forgotten. Occasionally, she would be walking down a street and a scent would drift out of an alley or shop that would be an almost perfect replication of Nikola’s flavor. Renewed loss would hit her so suddenly and fiercely it would be all she could do to move out of sight and teleport away to privacy. Certainty that Marigold had somehow been spared the potential blood-legacies of both her parents was cold comfort when it bore the additional knowledge that Marigold was destined for the mundane world and a mortal lifespan. Eventually, the last bit of Nikola would pass beyond her care and slip into the gentle embrace of the Long Night.

 

She watched as her daughter buried her face in her groom’s shoulder, embarrassed about something but still laughing. It was hard letting her go. If she had doubted even the tiniest bit that Harold loved her, Melanthe would not have been able to stand it. Marigold was still her baby, being barely sixteen. No matter that the girl had just enough of the lamiae blood to give her maturity beyond her chronological age, sixteen was nothing in terms of experience. Joining her life with a widower ten years older than her could be the height of folly, especially when said widower came with a toddler in tow. Yet Melanthe could see how their love shone when they were together, as bright as the bonfire they had jumped last Beltane and as steadily warm as the banked coals which had been the only light in the little cottage where she had raised Marigold on the Solstice night that the girl had haltingly confessed her suspicion of pregnancy. Harold loved her daughter and Marigold loved him in return. The Mother had blest their union even before a formal ceremony had been enacted. Who was Melanthe to go against such a sign?

 

It still broke her heart to let her little girl go, even into wedded bliss.

 

Nikola should have been here. He should have been by her side, safely held in her arms as they watched their child mix her blood— _their blood_ —with the man she loved and who loved her in return before their wrists and fates were tied. He should be excitedly debating what to teach _their_ grandchild first. He should be here and it was through her failure to protect him that he wasn’t. If she hadn’t sent him away on his own—if she had only sought him out instead of trying to lure the Triple Crowns away from London—if she had only protected him, her brilliant but brash Nikola, then he would be where he should have been, instead of reduced to ashes which being bickered over by museums and churches.

 

It was the curse of the lamiae, to have forever or near enough but to have no way of keeping those they loved with them. They were creatures who lived on love, in all its expressions, but couldn’t stand to be near others of their kind for longer than it took to raise a lamia child to maturity. They were capable of wondrous feats but incapable of stopping Atropos from stealing their cherished ones into the embrace of Achlys.

 

As she watched Marigold scoop up the tiny blonde that was now her daughter, Melanthe gave a prayer of thanks to Clotho for spinning her youngest daughter free of such a fate. If that Moirai was truly kind, the babe would be just as free.


	2. Firgun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Families grow and change over time. People are lost and others are found. All the same, it is love that binds them. Marigold reflects that she might not have been successful in teaching that lesson to her stepdaughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The contest for a free commission is officially closed with the posting of this chapter. The element that was supposed to be guessed has now moved from a hinted element to a stated one.

-= LP =-

Echoes of Forgotten Hope

Part 02: Firgun

-= LP =-

“What is done in love is done well.” – Vincent Van Gogh

-= LP =-

 

_Cokeworth, Shropshire, England, July 1971_

 

Marigold watched the children playing in the back garden, a bit wistful. She knew that it was going to happen some time, especially once she had settled into her own home, but there were still occasions when the idea of what her mother was missing felt painfully raw. It had been several years now since Melanthe had quietly moved away from the cottage at the edge of Cokeworth, slipping away in the middle of the night after locking down the wards. It was the way of lamiae to leave an area once their children were fully grown, and then rarely contact those children again. Marigold understood the reasons that her mother was no longer around, but as the lamiae blood had not fully manifested within her, she still had moments that were overwhelmingly human in their regret for stolen possibilities.

 

Her mother had never made a secret of her cursed biology even when she had done her best to minimize its influence on their lives. Marigold had barely recognized how different they were from their neighbors when she was younger. She had known they were different—that had been obvious when they didn’t go the local church or when Melanthe had taken the time to explain about the importance of keeping secrets. Whenever Marigold had invited friends home, Melanthe had been careful not to do any of the things which had made their lives so much easier than their neighbors.

 

All of her life, Marigold had been walking between two worlds, not quite fitting into either fully. She wasn’t like her mother, cursed with instincts and immortality, and for all that she was human enough for her mother to thank the gods for it, she wasn’t exactly like the other children. Marigold had aged slightly faster than her peers, more intelligence-wise than physically, but it gave her an edge. She knew there were those who clucked their tongues at her relationship with Harold, not as many now as there were in the early days, but Cokeworth was a small community; there was only so much that could stay hidden for long and her youth had been one of those things. Her poor Harold had nearly destroyed himself with guilt over his attraction to someone so young, no matter how she looked and acted. The whispers about the mother and daughter’s pagan faith had been just as problematic. In the end, it had been little Petunia who had cemented them together, as the three-year-old had refused to let Marigold go during a bout of influenza.

 

It wasn’t until after Lily was born that Marigold’s eyes began to open. Watching the little girl grow in comparison to her sister made blatantly clear why Melanthe had known so early on that Marigold was human despite the speckles of influence from her heritage. Lily did everything faster than her sibling. She was reading long before she had to go to Nursery, and always showed a keen insight into problems above her age. When Marigold taught her daughters the rituals of her youth, Lily blossomed, growing in power much the same way that Melanthe always had. Marigold had to sit down her child and have the hard talk about not being seen doing the bits of magic Lily did so effortlessly while her sister looked on in bitter jealousy. Marigold tried to love them both the same, and for the most part, she succeeded. There were moments though, when Lily would do something or tilt her head a certain way or phrase an idea a certain way, and it was like she was looking at her mother working in the cottage late at night.

 

When Lily dragged home the little ruffian from a few streets over, Marigold was not surprised. One of the first things her mother had taught her was that like called to like. It was probably for the best besides, because even Marigold could how Eileen was dying from trying to deny her magic. Just as their children began to guide each other in the ways of life, Marigold showed her new friend how to live two lives—one for without, and one for within. More than once already, Marigold had opened her house for Severus to retreat to when Tobias had gone on a drunken tear. One of these days Eileen was not going to be able to come pick up her son afterwards, but if there was anything that a small town knew better than the directive to take care of their own, it was letting a body take care of themselves when they were determined to do so.

 

The happy sounds of children playing pirates changed suddenly. Marigold’s sharp eyes picked out what was making her oldest screech. Two owls were flapping around Lily and Severus. While Severus seemed as stoic as normal, Lily was laughing as she tried to pluck the letters from the still-flying owls’ grasp. Petunia was attempting to scold her sister to no effect. Lily had been looking forward to this day since Severus had found her on that playground three years previously.

 

Even being raised with the knowledge that magic was real, it seemed odd to Marigold that there were entire schools for learning magic. Eileen had laughed when Marigold had asked if it weren’t better to learn such things at home. The sound of it had been brittle and sharp. Apparently, the magic being taught was different from how her mother had always done her spells. The wizards of the sort that ran Hogwarts were almost entirely dependent upon their wands and very few of them practiced _actual_ witchcraft anymore. Hogwarts only taught a very limited amount of witchcraft, and none of it under that name. Still, an entire school existed just for studying magic, even if its lessons were focused upon the use of a single kind of magical focus. The idea was mind-boggling.

 

Then Eileen had shared the prejudices which fueled much of those limitations. Witchcraft labeled almost to the whole as Dark Arts was even more shocking to Marigold than the existence of a school for magic. She had always figured that the wizarding world would have been free from that ignorant thinking. The information on how they treated those with creature-blood, even mostly inactive blood, had made Marigold’s own blood go cold in terror. The dark-haired woman’s explanation had made it plain that as far as the wizarding world was concerned, Lily would be safer if everyone believed she was merely a muggleborn, despite how they were mistreated. Severus knew to not mention the things Marigold passed along from Melanthe’s teachings—for all his fascination with the history being taught within those stories and the powerful magic contained within the rites. For as terribly as muggleborns were treated (just below second-class citizens), creatures were treated far worse, especially dark creatures. Even Melanthe had admitted that lamiae were violent and unpredictable when given cause to be.

 

“Mummy, make the freak stop!”

 

“Petunia! You know better than to call your sister that!”

 

“It’s the _truth_ ,” Petunia insisted, her mood as crossed as her arms. Marigold sighed. Her oldest held such anger in her heart. She was a beautiful child and while not as brilliant as Lily, Petunia was still very intelligent. Jealousy had already begun to twist her soul and with it, her looks. No one looked nice with a sneer on their face. Marigold could only hope that the teenage rebellion she had heard other mothers lament was nothing more than a myth. Petunia was only thirteen, no matter how close she was to her birthday. Seven years would be a lifetime.

 

“Just because she can do things that you cannot—“

 

“Knitting is not the same as making stones glow!” Petunia’s eyes flashed with cold fire. Her face twisted with sheer hatred. How had Marigold missed the growth of such a pure feeling? How had she failed the daughter she had taken into her heart along with her Harold? “She’s _nothing_ but a _freak_!”

 

“Petunia Anne Evans! Go to your room right now! I’ll not have my daughters calling each other names!”

 

“Oh, it’s not as if I’m _really_ your daughter, am I?!” Petunia spat before stomping into the house. Shock froze her. For eleven years, Marigold had raised her and loved her just the same as Lily. Harold had never hidden Rosalie from Petunia, and Marigold had made sure that she was remembered every Samhain. Death was not an enemy to be defeated, no matter what It stole. Yet Petunia had never thrown their lack of shared blood in her face. Oh, how she wished _her_ mother was here! Melanthe would no doubt have some kind of guidance to give.

 

“Majka! They’re here! They’re really here!”

 

Lily glowed with her happiness. She gave a spin in front of Marigold, unable to contain her excitement. Severus watched with a wary expression. He kept glancing at the door that had slammed shut behind Petunia. Even if Lily hadn’t noticed the fight, Severus had, and he needed reassurance. She knew that the boy would not accept being singled out for comfort—he never tolerated such things from anyone except Lily. His worshipful obsession was going to cause problems in the future, but for now, it was just a harmless dependency on his first friend. Pushing all worries of the future aside, Marigold pulled both children into a hug. Lily laughed before snuggling closer. Severus just silently melted against her side.

 

“I am so very proud of both you!” Marigold declared. Then she just let Lily chatter on about what she thought Hogwarts would be like. Severus would occasionally interrupt with information that he had gleaned from Eileen’s books. Marigold let their excitement soothe the ache caused by Petunia’s denial of her. It would have been nice to see what Melanthe thought of a wizarding world or her granddaughter having magic.

 

Sometimes Life was as much a thief as Death, and losing all those possibilities hurt just as much as words spoken in spite.


End file.
